


This is Me in Grade Nine, Baby

by Wine Dark Sea (aubreyli)



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: First Day of School, Gen, Rosenkreuz, Schwarz being supportive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/Wine%20Dark%20Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Nagi's first day of school.  He's somewhat less than enthused.  Luckily, his teammates will make sure he's well-prepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Me in Grade Nine, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from "Grade 9," by the Barenaked Ladies.

The vision comes at breakfast, when Crawford, spoon of oatmeal halfway to his mouth, suddenly stops moving.  Schuldig notices first, and gently lowers Crawford’s hand before the oatmeal can spill onto the table.  The vision only lasts for a few seconds, and Nagi knows it’s not good news when Crawford starts to frown.  

“Shit, already?” Schuldig asks.

Crawford gives him a stern look, but the usual admonishment, _Stay out of my head,_ never comes.  “I had hoped we would have more time,” he says to Nagi, in a matter-of-fact tone that Nagi wouldn’t learn until years later to be Crawford’s closest approximation to an apology.

Beside him, Farfarello makes a quiet, disgusted sound, and stabs his fork into an apple slice.  

Nagi nods.  “When will the agents arrive?” he asks politely, calmly, the way he’s been taught to do when agitated, or scared, or emotional in any way.  

“They’ll be here by the end of the week,” Crawford replies. 

Nagi nods again, swallowing hard around his suddenly dry throat.  Crawford’s been telling him that this day might come.  He’d hoped that at almost twelve years of age, he’d be too old for them to want him.  The others have told him stories about that place, but the way they’d looked told him more -- Crawford’s eyes hard behind his glasses, Farfarello’s lips curled in a snarl, Schuldig’s grins that looked more like grimaces.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.  He still has four more days, so at least he’ll be able to write his math test.  He’s been studying since last week.  He’ll definitely beat Morgan Dieter for the top mark this time.

He doesn’t feel hungry anymore.  He puts his melon back down onto his plate.

“Nagi,” Crawford says, looking at him like he’s trying to come to a decision.  Then he stands up, and looks at Schuldig until he does the same.  “Finish your breakfast, then pack your things.  We’re not waiting for them to get here." 

This gets Nagi’s attention.  “What?” he asks, and immediately hates how weak and high-pitched (and _young_ ) his voice sounds.  He looks at Schuldig, who shakes his head minutely and gives him a quelling glare that says, even without the telepathic backing, _Do as you’re told._

The two men leave, taking their dishes with them.  Nagi stares at his plate, breathing slowly and carefully to calm the storm in his mind.  He doesn’t care, he doesn’t even like them, he’s known from the day Crawford found him what kind of people they are.  It’s just, it’s just that he’d _thought --_

A hand on his shoulder startles him.  The silverware on the table rattles for a brief moment, before settling down.  

“Come with me,” Farfarello says.  His eye looks golden in the morning sunlight, like a hawk’s.  “Schuldig will pack for you.  We have time for one more lesson.”

* * *

He’s learned a lot during his time with Schwarz.  Crawford taught him how to plan, how to reduce the most complex, intricate chains of events into color-coded labels and dates.  Schuldig taught him how to shoot a gun, how to reload quickly, how to clean it afterwards.  Farfarello taught him how to fight.

Nagi had been too in awe of Crawford to argue, but he’d fought the lessons from the others, because what kind of telekinetic would ever need to use guns or fists?  Schuldig and Farfarello had shrugged and gone away.  The next day, all the food in the flat was gone, along with all their money.  The day after that, whenever he turned a corner, one of them would be waiting for him, until he was forced to keep up a telekinetic shield all the time.  By the afternoon of the third day, Nagi could barely move, much less use his power.  Then Farfarello dragged him into the carefully padded room that he used on his bad days, and threw him an energy bar.

 _That_ , Farfarello said, _was the first lesson._

“Humans are animals,” Farfarello tells him, once this lesson is over and Nagi is lying panting on the floor, both from the exertion and from controlling his gift.  “Vicious and ruthless, but we still understand the natural order of things.”  He touches a bloody hand to his ear, his throat, stomach, groin, and the other places that he’s spent the last hour teaching Nagi to hit.  “Strike first, strike _hard,_ and you’ll only have to do it once.”

“Is that what you did?” Nagi asks, wincing as he sits up.  Farfarello was gentle with him; he’ll only be bruised.  

The man grins, white teeth stained red.

* * *

Crawford is in his office when Nagi comes out of the shower.  He pauses, a few centimeters of air and endless indecision between his raised hand and the closed door.   

 _Come over here,_ Schuldig orders, and Nagi suddenly steps back, his feet taking him into the living room.  

“I don’t like it when you do that,” he says, as one last mental push sits him down on the sofa beside Schuldig.  Two duffle bags are sitting by the door, as well as Nagi’s schoolbag.

“Then make me stop,” Schuldig replies with an easy shrug.  It’s the same thing he always says, whether he’s just eaten the dessert Nagi was saving for later, or told Nagi disgusting things about the people around them.  Nagi suddenly wonders if that’s something he picked up in _there,_ if once, someone had said that to _him --_

“Rosenkreuz,” Schuldig snaps, jolting Nagi from his thoughts.  “You can fucking say the name, it’s not the fucking Boogeyman.”  He looks angry, which Nagi doesn’t understand; it’s not like _he’s_ the one who’s getting sent to --

“Oh, get over it, we all did.”  Within an eyeblink, his anger disappears into a wide, tooth-filled grin.  “Now, my dear little Nagi, close your eyes.  Uncle Schuldig’s got a going-away present for you.”

Something primal and instinctive in Nagi tenses, and he quickly raises his hands, forcing space between the two of them.  Just for a second, Schuldig freezes, but then Nagi’s head rings with familiar laughter, and his hands fall, along with his power.

Nagi grits his teeth, feeling rage boil inside him as Schuldig holds him, helpless, in a telepathic vice-grip.  

“Relax, kid, this won’t hurt a bit,” Schuldig says, and then he’s in Nagi’s mind, infesting him like bramble, like barbed wire, more and more and more --

“Y-You _liar,_ ” Nagi gasps, shuddering with pain when Schuldig finally releases him.

“ _Schuldig im Sinne der Anklage,_ ” he says, snickering at his own joke.   

“How was that a _present?_ ”

Schuldig waves a dismissive hand.  “Listen, there’s an instructor, his name’s Visscher.”  An image appears in Nagi’s head: a tall man, short blond hair, a deep scar running from the corner of his mouth almost to his left ear.  “I knew him when I was a student.  I thought he might want to say hello to you, so I gave you a message for him.”

Nagi stares incredulously at him, head still throbbing.  “Do I look like a mailman to you?”

Faster than his eyes can follow, Schuldig fists a hand in Nagi’s shirt and drags him forward until their faces are mere centimeters apart.  “No, you ungrateful little brat, you look like _prey._ ”  He shoves Nagi away from him, and gets to his feet.  “Now they’ll know you’re not.”

* * *

Lunch is take-out from the Indian place down the street.  Nagi likes Indian food; it’s one of the only good things about living in London.  Crawford comes out of his office to eat, and everyone says very little.  It’s the quietest meal Nagi can remember having with Schwarz. 

“Our flight leaves in three hours,” Crawford says, once they’re done.  “A car will pick us up in ten minutes.”

At first, Nagi assumes that Crawford is just talking to him, but then he sees Schuldig and Farfarello nod as well.  He’s surprised to realize that Farfarello has taken out all of his piercings, and his arms are bare.

“Will there be trouble?” Nagi asks.

“No,” Crawford says.

The ride to the airport is even quieter than the lunch, punctuated only by Farfarello’s complaint that he feels naked without his knives.  With Schuldig’s assistance, they get through security with relative ease (“That’ll be _your_ job when you come back, kid”) and get to their gate just as final boarding is being called.

For a flight of only a few hours, Crawford booked economy seats.  Nagi sits by the window with Crawford beside him.  Across the aisle, two men happily agree to switch seats with Farfarello and Schuldig.

Nagi does not like flying.  Schuldig thinks that it’s one of life’s little ironies, like Crawford, the precognitive, having poor eyesight -- the telekinetic with motion sickness.  

“Here,” Crawford says, holding out a bottle of water and a small plastic packet containing tiny, round pills.  “Don’t take more than half of one.”

The meds start to work almost immediately, and Nagi’s pleasantly fuzzy by the time the plane takes off.

“Schuldig tells me you think you’ve done something wrong,” Crawford says.

Blinking blearily, he turns his head to glare at Schuldig, who gives him a jaunty little wave in return.  Turning back to Crawford, he says, accusingly, “You drugged me on purpose to ask me questions.”

“You’re more honest like this,” Crawford says, corners of his mouth tugging upwards.  “Why do you think you’ve done something wrong?”

Nagi frowns.  Talking is hard.  “They… end of the week.  Why sending me early?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet.” It is not a question, but Crawford doesn’t look disappointed.  “You will soon.”  

And then Nagi feels a hand on his forehead, and he closes his eyes.

* * *

Schuldig wakes him up as the plane is taxiing to its arrival gate.  Nagi still aches from the combined assault -- 

\-- _You mean **assistance** \--_

 _\-- assault_ of Farfarello and Schuldig, but the nap has helped considerably.

A driver carrying a sign with Crawford’s name meets them at the airport, and soon, they’re winding their way up the side of a mountain.

His first impression of Rosenkreuz is that it’s beautiful, rising out of the green mountainside like a fairytale castle, with a breathtaking blue backdrop.  It’s so beautiful that it doesn’t _seem_ like the kind of place that could be making Farfarello growl and Schuldig white-knuckle the door handle.

But then, Nagi cautions himself, Crawford doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could beat someone to death with his bare hands; Schuldig doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could talk someone into killing themselves.  And Farfarello…

To his right, Schuldig barks out a laugh.  “Farf, the kid thinks that you’re the only psycho here who actually looks like a psycho!”

The remaining members of Schwarz join in the laughter as Nagi scowls and looks away.

“We’re here,” Crawford says, after a few minutes.  

“And just in time for playtime,” Schuldig murmurs, as the car stops.

The courtyard in front of the castle is full of children, all dressed in pale grey uniforms.  They run and chase one another, or talk huddled together in groups, and Nagi could almost be fooled into thinking that this is just any other school -- but for the way not a single child is smiling or laughing.

The hackles rise on the back of Nagi’s neck, and he’s grateful when Crawford puts a hand on his shoulder.  They walk towards the school, Farfarello and Schuldig bracketing himself and Crawford in between them, each holding a duffle bag.  Without turning his head, Nagi watches the other children watch him, with interest and open curiosity, but also a kind of hunger that Nagi remembers from before Crawford found him -- the hunger of wanting someone even weaker than you to step on, so that you might reach just a little higher.

“Herr Crawford!” A man is heading quickly for them, an instructor -- Nagi recognizes the white uniform from Schuldig’s mental projection.  “How unexpected to see you,” he says in German.

“Rosenkreuz seeks my telekinetic, Antoine,” Crawford replies in the same language.  “I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“How generous,” says another instructor, a beautiful dark-skinned woman with grey streaks in her black hair, and a blood-red armband on her sleeve.  She turns her gaze to Nagi, assessing.  “We have heard promising things about you, Naoe.”

Crawford’s fingers tense ever so slightly on his shoulder.  Nagi bows.  “I will do my best to meet your expectations.”  His German is accented, but his pronunciation is crisp, and his grammar perfect.

The woman scrutinizes him for another moment, then turns back towards the school.  “Come, and bring your things.”

Crawford releases his shoulder.  Schuldig and Farfarello put down his bags.  As one, they turn and head back toward the car, leaving Nagi standing there, and it suddenly hits him, like a fist to the stomach, that he’s been _left_ here, all alone, among these hollow-eyed children for who knows how long --

 _Three years,_ Schuldig says, and gives the mental equivalent of a shrug.   _Give or take.  Crawford hasn’t gotten the specifics yet.  Now stop fucking projecting, you’re like a scared little rabbit._

 _Right_ , Nagi thinks, taking a deep, slow breath and lifting his bags from the ground.   _I’m not prey._

 _Damned right._ An image appears in Nagi’s mind, of the three of them walking, with a gap between Crawford and Schuldig, where Nagi had been.  

 _You’re **Schwarz,**_ Schuldig says, so firmly that Nagi can feel it echo in his head afterwards.  

The children part as Nagi walks past, creating a gauntlet of cold, hostile stares.  He ignores them, focusing on not letting his bags waver as they float on either side of him.  He’s not stupid enough to think that just this has been enough to let him coast through the next three years, but a head start is still better than nothing, and he has no intention of wasting it.

**Author's Note:**

> There is something tremendously appealing about writing Schwarz-as-family!fic. And I figure, Nagi has to have gotten his "fight for your comrades" beliefs from somewhere.


End file.
